Stubbornness
by lost feather
Summary: Oneshot. Holmes definitely doesn't need Watson anymore. Probably. Holmes/Watson.


**Stubbornness.**

Holmes was always counting. It was a good habit, in his line of work. He counted the number of entrances and exits into the warehouse, many of which were high windows, and would probably result in mild injury. He counted the number of individuals breathing, hidden in the shadows, waiting to open fire on Holmes as soon as the head of this whole operation decided to finish gloating over his achievements (which, in Holmes' opinion, were barely worth gloating over.)

He counted the number of bullets that whistled past, dodging their paths through the air, and for a sliver of a second wished he hadn't 'forgotten' his own gun. He ran past Lestrade, after having recovered from a leap out of a high window. "All yours, then," he smirked, and Lestrade sent his seventeen men into the warehouse. The eleven criminals emerged twelve minutes and fifty-six seconds later, bruised, battered, and handcuffed.

Lestrade frowned. "Really, Holmes. Although I realise you did play a role in their capture, there was no need to go in there before us at all. We had the building surrounded already."

"Can you not see the great service I did your men?" asked Holmes impudently. "My presence seemed to have forced them to use up most of their bullets. A good man or two of yours could have been more gravely injured if they had more firepower."

"That's nonsense Holmes. You've become more and more reckless recently. I do not want to see you dead."

"My, my. Could it be that you might actually be concerned for my wellbeing?"

"I am concerned for the welfare of the public, Holmes, if you are not there to investigate some of these crimes."

Ah, Lestrade. Never one to easily admit that the Yard _needed _Holmes. It was highly amusing to Holmes to have stubborn men like Lestrade forced to admit something they would not admit.

Holmes stalked over to the man who had only sixteen minutes prior been reveling in his success. "Pride comes before a fall, I'm afraid," winked Holmes. The man spat angrily at Holmes, the spit flying onto Holmes' chest. "Come now, try not to add tarnishing of a perfectly fine jacket to your list of crimes," smiled Holmes amiably, brushing the jacket carefully.

One of the other men laughed. "Where's ya dog, Holmes?"

Holmes blinked, and had a feeling that they were not referring to Gladstone (who, in any case, was really _Watson's_). "I would appreciate it," he said gently, while stepping sharply on the offender's foot, "If you would not refer to Watson in such a manner." He swiveled, and punched the man's face none too lightly.

Lestrade was aghast. "Holmes! There is no need to cripple those who are in our custody!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Inspector," muttered Holmes, and turned away, scuffing his shoes angrily against the pavement, and checking again that Watson's jacket was not sullied.

--

Now that Watson was gone, Holmes spent long periods of time hunched in his room, barely glancing at his newspaper, and finding something or other to experiment with. This wasn't unusual for Holmes, but the difference was that he lack of Watson to bring him out of it. He barely even touched his violin – there really wasn't any point now that there was nobody to annoy with it.

On the first time Watson visited since the warehouse incident, Holmes was sulking over the fact that Watson had been too busy with Miss Mary Morstan (and Holmes simply refused to remember that technically she was 'Mrs Watson,') to help with the last case. But really, Watson didn't matter to him, not at all. He didn't need Watson. Nevertheless, Holmes still sulked over the fact that he was gone. And so it was he leapt up from his place in the lounge-chair and hid in a corner behind a dining-chair shrouded in a large white sheet as he heard Watson coming up the stairs, (for Holmes knew it was Watson's shoes on those stairs), hoping Watson would presume he had gone out. Watson entered cautiously, all too aware of the probabilities of Holmes being irritable at Watson's absence.

"Holmes?"

Holmes' heart thudded. Probably due to the thrill of the game.

"Holmes? Are you in here?" Watson treaded carefully around the broken glass from a beaker Holmes had thrown at the floor recently. The floorboards creaked under Watson's foot, and he flinched slightly. He swung open the bedroom door, and stood for a moment, appraising the mess. Then he walked back and sat in Holmes' lounge-chair, thinking.

Part of Holmes wanted to jump up and embrace Watson, making sure that, yes, he was still there, and he was still _Holmes'_ Watson. But then Holmes imagined that Watson would probably smell a little like Miss Mary – no, Mrs Mary – and he instead imagined acting coldly, enjoying the hurt look he envisioned on Watson. He didn't need Watson. He had done just fine alone before. His thoughts were interrupted by Watson getting up from the lounge-chair and examining the desk near Holmes.

Holmes couldn't see properly, but he imagined Watson's hand running along the pile of barely-touched newspapers and the chemistry set Holmes had established on the desk. Holmes saw Watson smirk, and he frowned. Holmes usually knew what Watson was thinking, and he felt a stab of fear. Had Watson really been gone long enough for Holmes to lose the ability to know what was in his companion's mind?

Watson strode over to the windows and opened every single curtain, letting the sunlight pour into the dusty room. Holmes shut his eyes very firmly, and remained determined not to give himself away. But he couldn't hide the smile that was finding its way to his lips. Watson knew he was here, Holmes was sure.

Watson turned around, and muttered, "There. A bit of light should do you good. Now, are you going to come out, I wonder?"

Holmes frowned, opening his eyes again. How on earth did Watson know he was in here? He hadn't hidden very well, it was true; but he was sure Watson hadn't directly seen him yet.

Watson sighed heavily, and began to search in the cupboards. After the cupboards, he looked carefully behind every piece of furniture in the room, and sure enough, found Holmes lurking behind the chair.

"Not your best effort, wouldn't you say?" smiled Watson, leaning down to Holmes, their faces too close for Holmes to avoid Watson's penetrating gaze. He looked away, flustered.

"_Wait a minute," _thought Holmes, _"I shouldn't be the one feeling guilty! It was not I who abandoned his dearest friend to solitude!" _He looked back at once, only to again feel annoyingly uncomfortable from that gaze. _"I'm being unreasonable," _thought Holmes, _"I shouldn't feel that I'm being selfish and petty. He's the one that's to blame, here!" _But Holmes couldn't quite convince himself either way on the chuckled. Watson must be the only person who was able to make him, the great Sherlock Holmes, feel as conflicted as that.

"Something funny?" Watson inquired, and Holmes was right; he could smell Miss Mary Morstan. Holmes' smile was wiped from his face, his eyes back behind their familiar mask. "No," replied Holmes.

"You should really get out, Holmes. Surely there's a case you can involve yourself with?"

Holmes bit back his tongue from lashing out at Watson. Watson should have, but clearly did not, realise that the thrill of the detective work meant little now without the companionship of Watson by his side, covering his back, fighting against those who would hurt them, and complaining loudly about why and how Holmes had dragged him on another case. "_Once you taste riches, Watson," _thought Holmes, "_it's hard for one to go back to poverty." _Then he almost laughed at himself, because only minutes before had he been telling himself that he was perfectly fine alone.

Watson raised an eyebrow as Holmes stretched, and made himself comfortable on the floor. "You could sit on that chair, you know."

"But it is surprisingly comfortable here," remarked Holmes, watching as Watson picked up a newspaper and sat down on the chair next to Holmes, scouring through for anything interesting. Holmes leant comfortably back against Watson's leg, and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight.

"Watson?"

"Mmm?"

"How did you know I was here?"

Watson turned the page of the newspaper. "Holmes, give me a little credit."

Holmes frowned. "I must know."

"Fine," Watson sighed, "I had a feeling, but I knew when I sat in the couch that you had only just left it. It was still warm."

Holmes nodded to himself. "Ah. Well, I did only have seconds to conceal myself."

And Watson did not even ask why Holmes would find the need to do so.

They continued like that for the rest of the day, and any time Watson would find something in the newspapers, Holmes would interrupt and point out that, in some way or another, it was not the kind of job for him, or that it had probably already been solved, and in this way Holmes was able to have Watson's presence in the room for a lengthy amount of time. After all, there were many newspapers around the room.

And after Watson left, even though Holmes once again began telling himself that he didn't need Watson, Holmes left the curtains open for several days afterwards.

--

The next time he visited, Watson strode into the room confidently and simply said, "Seen it?"

Holmes' face was hidden behind the overly-large newspaper he held. "The incident at 44 Dowling?"

"That's the one," said Watson briskly. "This is right up your alley, Holmes."

Holmes knew he was right, but he did not want to admit it. "Mmm."

"Well? We have to be quick, unless you want the Yard to get there first."

Holmes opened his mouth to argue, when it clicked. "_We, he said, not you." _Holmes lay still for a moment, and then picked up his hat, threw on a coat and was out the door in a flash, the old fire back in his eyes. Watson grinned as he shut the door behind them and followed Holmes outside.

--

That night, they came back late, and Watson swayed uneasily on the doorstep, having taken a heavy blow to his already-weak leg. Holmes observed him, worried, and helped him up the stairs, where Watson collapsed the lounge-chair.

Watson leant down to put some salve on his injuries, when Holmes caught his hand. Leaning down next to Watson, he said, "I'll do it."

"No offense meant, Holmes, but I am the doctor."

"And I am the detective who is merely trying to make up for the fact that yet again the doctor has been injured thanks to the detective."

Watson smiled slightly. "Well, fine then."

"You don't look fit enough to go home, I dare say," Holmes observed, and Watson laughed.

"You would say that, would you not, Holmes? I seem to have picked up the ability to see into the future, because I already told Mary not to worry if I was not home tonight."

"I see. Well. I suppose I'll ask Nan-"

"At this hour, Holmes? Really, you should be a little more considerate."

"Well, I suppose I am," replied Sherlock Holmes, "quite selfish."

"And don't I know it," muttered Watson, leaning back against the chair and closing his eyes.

After several minutes, Holmes had observed that Watson's breathing rate was at a steady enough pace to assume he was asleep. He leant against the chair and murmured, "Watson?"

No response.

"I hope you know I need you, old friend."

"You are stubborn, Holmes. It took you long enough to realise it."

And when Watson had truly gone to sleep, Holmes counted the number of times Watson whispered his name and Mary's. When he said Mary's, it was loving, and gentle. When he said Holmes' name, it was annoyed and exasperated, or enraged, or traumatized, or concerned, or… or some tones Holmes' couldn't identify.

And he only said Mary's name twice.

**AN// Because the last Holmes story I wrote was far too depressing! Kind of a way of getting the boys back together. Most of this was inspired by the movie, especially where Holmes leans against Watson. It's a little choppy; I apologize, it went through several re-writes with different central themes (and in the end, ended up with more than one, which probably diminishes it somewhat). Still, I hoped you liked it! Please review~ it would be ever so nice. :)**


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